


neither tarnished nor afraid

by stardustardie



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Assorted Drabbles and Stuff, Color Confusion, F/M, Interdimensional Handwavey Nonsense, Noir Being Noir, even when the slowburn in question isnt even that slow really, so you start writing unrelated scraps to tide you over, tfw your slowburn is too slow for you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-30 22:14:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17232188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustardie/pseuds/stardustardie
Summary: He's too serious, sometimes, and maybe you like that most of all.[assorted noir/reader snippets and drabbles, written as they come to me]





	1. a common man

**Author's Note:**

> hey, guess who's still not over this absolute dweeb? ME. here are some more drabbles!
> 
> the title's a Raymond Chandler quote!!

“So _this_ one’s blue,” Noir guessed, his tone sharp with focus. “And _this_ one’s blue…”

“Yep.”

“Then _this_ one’s… yellow?”

“That’s also blue, Noir.” You couldn’t hold back a grin at the way he let out an irritated little huff.

“I can’t make heads or tails of it,” he muttered, looking back down at the seaside puzzle the two of you were completing together. “It seems arbitrary. Sure you’re not pulling the wool over my eyes here?”

The sight of the black-swathed titan of a man basically pouting at shades of blue on your living room floor had you pressing a fist to your mouth to seal in the _‘aww’_ that wanted to escape. Shaking your head fondly, you planted a hand on your hip, mock-offended.

“Come on, Peter, do you honestly think I’d ever lie to you?”

And, true to form, his response was short, instant, and carried the serious reverence of a coronation.

“Never.”

It was almost like he was putting his life in your hands here, and not solving a hundred-piece dollar-store puzzle with you on a lazy Saturday afternoon during a casual interdimensional visit. Peter Parker, private eye, wore solemnity like a second skin, even and especially in the most mundane situations.

The fact had you laughing, even as you gently raised your hand to bat softly at his cheek, much like a docile cat would affectionately _bap_ its favorite person. (Fitting – since he _was_ , after all, your favorite person.) Noir let it happen, though he could have leaned out of reach easily. And once you turned your attention back to the puzzle on the floor, he raised his fingers to trace over where your hand had just been, wonderingly, as if he could still feel the warmth of your skin through his mask.

“Never change, Sherlock,” you said warmly. “Anyway, if you want, we could put this stupid puzzle aside and solve it later – you know, maybe after you can tell the difference between cerulean and sky blue.”

Of course, the idea of backing down from something so easy by design rankled at the proud detective, and he sat up just a bit straighter.

“You know I don’t leave loose ends,” Noir reminded you flatly, as if you’d just suggested he leave a dangerous mob boss to do as he pleased in the city. You could read enough of his body language at this point to see the offense taken by your suggestion, written in the cant of his head, the line of his shoulders. You were astute enough to know that his eyes were trained on yours, as they so often were.

Grinning, you raised your hands in defeat.

“Alright, alright,” you conceded. "But only if we can go get some milkshakes or something afterwards.”

The soft chuckle that escaped him warmed your heart, just a little.

“Well, not even I could resist an offer like that.”


	2. but i think he might seduce a duchess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kiss had to happen somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm! that sure wasn't supposed to take so many words to happen asdhfg
> 
> 1) I meant to keep it under 1000 words but as you can see it did not happen, haha!  
> 2) Probably because slow burn is like. My Poison. and I can't see Noir planting one on a gal without at least a solid rapport built up beforehand.  
> 3) I just really like baseball bats and rave lights and mildly stale 21st century turns of phrase, haha, hence Reader's entire persona this time around.  
> 4) Title is also from Chandler's "The Simple Art of Murder"! I feel like Noir would stick really closely to Chandler's model of a hardboiled detective, so what I know of his writing kind of inspires Peter's characterization.  
> 5) Well, Jupiter, I hope I did your prompt justice!!  
> 6) Also!! Can you believe another year's passed?! Take all the care in the world today/tonight/the rest of 2019! You guys deserve to be safe and happy!

You weren’t sure when you expected it to happen, but in the middle of a shootout in another dimension entirely as rain sluiced in icy buckets down on your head was absolutely _not_ it. It was, though, entirely in character when it came to the two of you, and you could at least admit that.

When it came to style, the two of you were obviously as opposite as Spider-people could get. He with his monochrome sleuth’s get-up and pistol clashed heavily with your hooded and neon-lit DIY ensemble and baseball bat; in fact, you distinctly recalled the noir detective keeping his distance from you initially, until his greyscale eyes had adjusted to the loud pop of street-kid color that you’d decided to be.

Maybe it was the ‘opposites attract’ adage that had you both coming together as fast friends; maybe, really, it was because you were more alike than visibly apparent, with your strong convictions and wry sense of humor.

Whatever the case, the two of you were loath to part ways after the super-collider fiasco was cleared up; the realization that dimension-hopping was a possibility was the best news you could have received in that moment.

“You’re welcome anytime, y’know,” Peter had said, holding his fedora almost defensively in front of his chest as if bracing himself for rejection. You hadn’t thought it possible for a man to exude such skittishness through a mask and goggles, but there you were. “At my place, that is. My home dimension. I can’t promise you a peaceful time, but…”

“Hey, now, Chiaroscuro,” you’d interrupted gently, a grin forming beneath your own mask that you were sure he could make out. “That sounds rad. I just might come around sooner rather than later.”

And, well, you had. Which brings you to the present, where you have your well-loved bat raised, poised for a devastating swing and laughing at how _familiar_ this exact scenario was rapidly becoming.

See, true to form, you’d dropped in on the Noir Spider-Man without warning – and, as he’d suspected that first time, as he was in the middle of a scuffle. You’d also done this the last eight times, to the point where he saw fit to inform you that your exotically colorful self caused a bigger stir in the city every single time. And though you knew he had half a mind to be upset that he could never show you a quaint tour through his world as he’d intended, you also couldn’t bring yourself to mind the rush of adrenaline you got to share with him every time you fought back-to-back.

At this point, the relationship between you and Peter Parker was forged in iron by the heat of battle, hackneyed as the metaphor was.

“How many left?” you called over to him, whacking another gangster’s lights out and webbing him to the wall.

“Getting tired already?” he tossed back almost playfully. Then, a couple seconds later: “Six.”

“Oh, awesome-sauce!” Did you use as much 21st century slang as possible in the hopes of getting some to stick with him? Yes. “That’ll be a heckin’ breeze and a half, amiright?”

“We’ll go with that.”

Well. Maybe someday.

The absolute whirlwind the two of you made cleaning up the rest of the guys – a most-certainly Aesthetic™ cyclone of void and neon glow – was something magical to behold, you were sure of it. Or, if not magical, then such an endorphin-producer that you could barely feel the graze of old-school bullets across your skin.

“Was that a first wave?” you gasped out as the streets went still again. Or, well, _still_ aside from the weakly writhing, webbed-up forms of New York’s dumbest mooks, aside from the thundering _patter_ of rain against paved street. “That felt like a first wave.”

“Given these types, I’d put money on it,” Noir agreed gruffly. “You alright? Those were some heavies back there.”

“Me? I’m chill, aside from a couple scrapes,” you said; then, as he swiped a hand across his masked mouth, discomforted, you turned the question around. “What’s up, are _you_ alright?”

“Still kicking,” the tall man assured, but you knew he knew you’d noticed something was up. He amended, “Just took a good knock to the face earlier. Busted lip, nothing lethal.”

Immediately, your hands went to your hips. _Busted lip_. Probably an understatement if you knew him.

“’Nothing lethal,’” you repeated. “Whoa, okay, but if you mentioned it, it’s gotta hurt, yeah?”

“I’m the Spider-Man. I’ve handled worse –”

_“Peter,”_ you said, softer, with more force, aware that there was a line you were toeing here and aware that this was new ground. “Just… let me take a look at it, yeah? I just want to make sure you didn’t break something.”

_There_ it was, out in the open. It was an innocuous offer born of concern, and you were sure he knew that. It didn’t stop you from overanalyzing every breath he took, every shift in his body language, every suddenly-too-absent tic you knew he worked to keep under control.

You were half a breath away from rescinding the statement, from laughing it off and blaming it on a meme because there was no _way_ he could call you out on a meme…

But he agreed.

“I… Alright,” said Peter, sounding startled. And again, softer. “Alright.”

You didn’t need to be told a third time.

Reaching upwards, careful to ensure that he was at an angle where anyone wandering in wouldn’t see, you settled your hands on the hem of his mask, right above his throat.

(He let you do it; he half-worried you’d feel the tremor running up his spine at the weight of your fingers on a point so vulnerable, and resolved to ponder later on the question of why _you_ made such a thing okay, why he was okay with most _anything_ so long as it was you.)

Gently, slower than anything, you tugged the fabric upwards. A sliver of skin – grey-toned, like everything else – the telltale swallow that had his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly. The ruler-straight line of his jaw.

And then his mouth.

Thin lips settled almost naturally into a contemplative sort of frown, something so entirely _him_ that you couldn’t help but half-smile, just a little. A white scar curved halfway down to his chin on the left side of his mouth, a story that you felt he’d tell if you asked.

Settling the folds of the mask right on the bridge of a straight, pronounced nose, you took the time to gaze over what you could see of Noir’s face. Recognition had you grinning, and then outright laughing quietly right there in the middle of the wintery rain.

“I know I don’t look _that_ bad,” he drawled. Your chuckles died down slightly at the question, both because of the _way_ his mouth formed the words and because of the faint note of self-doubt. You shook your head, fond, and settled a hand on the sharp plane of his cheekbone.

(He stilled. Counted his breaths. Tried not to hyperfocus on the feel of skin-to-skin contact. Failed. Cursed mentally.)

“No, you’re…” The amused huff that leaves your mouth is wondering, unbelievably endeared. “You really are Peter Parker, huh?”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, too.” The dry retort was weakened by the t that he shared the facial features of Peter _B._ Parker, albeit clean-shaven, monochrome, and altogether more pensive than the other man’s.

“Hey! _Shut_ ,” you ordered without any real heat behind the words, and turned your attention onto the rivulets of dark, almost black blood tricking down his chin, diluted by the rainfall. You hummed a noise of sympathy, wiped it away with the pad of your gloved thumb, gently prodded at his jaw, and took note of the areas that made him wince.

(He hadn’t had gentle physical contact in… well, almost ever. It really was something.)

“Yep,” you declared after a moment. “Busted. You’ve also bruised your jawbone really impressively – I should give you a medal, but instead I think we should just get you some ice to keep the swelling down.” A second of hesitation. “You guys… _do_ have ice, right?”

You could actually feel the sigh he heaved at that brushing against your fingers, and it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. It wasn’t unpleasant at _all_ , actually, and it had you thinking of lines that could maybe be crossed, boundaries the two of you were ready to readjust.

For his part, Noir fixed you with a thoroughly unimpressed look for a second.

“It’s 1933, not the Stone Age.”

Your laugh was distracted, and you knew he’d noticed. You knew that at any time he could pull away, that you should have just given him the verdict and let go of his face, let go of the moment, but you just… _didn’t._

Instead, you said, “Hey, one more thing?”

And he played along, voice hushed like yours. “What’s up?”

The use of a phrase you normally used brought a smile out of you, bolstered your confidence just enough for you to lean upwards, slower than anything, slow enough to give him time to react, to run, to _something._

(He couldn’t bring himself to move again, lest he shatter the moment, or wake up from whatever fantasy this undoubtedly was.)

The kiss was in itself chaste, and, if you were honest, little more than a glorified brushing together of mouths. Peter drew in the slightest of startled little breaths, otherwise remaining statuelike – but, no, not entirely. Vaguely, you registered the hesitant touch of his hand at your waist, as if he wasn’t sure he was reading the signals right. His lips were cool and pliant against yours, lined with the tang of iron and the subtle suggestion of mint behind that.

It was really something else, you thought, opening your eyes to find that his skin had flushed a darker shade of grey.

(It was, Peter thought, really kind of wonderful.)

Pulling back, you schooled your expression into a grin to mask your uncertainty.

“Alright. Done,” you said, and gently tugged his mask back down into place. “Good news, though. Your mouth still works.”

Any other time, you would have been doubled over laughing at how stunned your own voice sounded; at how stunned _his_ voice sounded when he finally cleared his throat and spoke.

“That’s, uh…” (C’mon, Parker.) “That’s good news. Thanks, doc. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Don’t mention it.” And then, hastily, because you realized you didn’t _want_ him to not mention it: “Or, yeah, go ahead and mention it. I mean, if you want. If you’d like to, you know.”

(He absolutely would.)

Your shared spider sense was an absolute lifesaver in that moment – not because the silence was _uncomfortable_ , because it wasn’t entirely, but because it gave the two of you time to step back and put what had happened into perspective. Dealing with more angry armed men was a good way to take a mental breather, after all, and you could sense them coming your way.

“There’s the second wave, huh?” you asked rhetorically, hefting your bat back up.

“Seems like.” His pistol had made its appearance again, but he seemed off-kilter still, head still canted in your direction though he could surely sense the approaching enemy, too.

“Man. Don’t crime lords know how to chill out?”

His answering chuckle caused a smile to tug at your mouth, and, encouraged, you turned to him about to toss out another silly quip.

Instead, you found him looking right into your eyes with a curious tilt to his head. He fiddled with the brim of his fedora, drew in his breath to speak.

“What’s up?”

“I –” And wasn’t that a sight to see: the fearsome defender of monochrome New York, tongue-tied and bashful and bruised, more concerned about getting coherent words out than the actual horde of two-bit gangsters advancing two blocks down. Then, of course, because he was the fearsome defender of monochrome New York, he steeled himself and dredged up his hardboiled, courageous personality.

“Y’know…” Said almost conversationally, to his credit. “I’d rather like to kiss you again sometime.”

( _‘Have you double-check the hit I took,’_ he didn’t say, because that felt too much like Peter B.-brand awkward for him to handle.)

Oh, wow.

There were no words for the warmth suddenly rising champagne-like in your chest at that. Oh, _wow._

Forget his little blush earlier; your face was probably cherry red now, and he would undoubtedly notice.

Still, though. You were sort of in the middle of something, distracting as his statement was.

So, “I’m flattered, Detective,” you replied, “but we have bigger birds to stone before we get to that part.”

Then, softer (and much to Peter’s satisfied, mortified delight):

“But believe me, we _will_ get to that part.”

(Good God.)


End file.
